The Soldier and The Fallen
by LukeTheAviator
Summary: John finds it difficult coping with Holmes' return from the dead, so much so he cant even call him by his first name. But now as they fight the newest threat to Britains safety, they are brought closer together and forced to face their feelings for each other. Mostly Johnlock but a little Johnstrade too. Please leave your reviews and opinions (thank you for the ones so far!) :D
1. Chapter 1

He knew that he was watching him but as always he simply ignored it or (more likely) didn't care. Why should The Great Sherlock Holmes care anyway if he was being observed? He shouldn't, and that was that. Why should he care about anything? Why did he even come back?

John couldn't help but feel resentment towards the man he had at one point called his best friend, and as he leaned in the doorway, watching Holmes' silhouetted shoulders twitch slightly as he typed away into his laptop, the bright screen illuminating the edges of his clothing and dark hair like a halo. He couldn't stop his lip curling into a slight snarl as he thought that. Just because Holmes had seemingly been resurrected did not make him an angel.  
Not for one minute.

John turned from where he was standing and strode down the stairs and out of the door without a word, not that Holmes would notice his absence. That thought only made his chest tighten more, though whether that was with anger or hurt he still wasn't sure. Things had been complicated since the other man had come back- no, they had been worse than complicated, they had been bloody awful.

Three years. Three years of mourning the death of the man, of fighting the scandal and hatred that was being built against his name. John hadn't been able to cope in the first few months, his only comfort was the feeble hope that there could still be one last miracle and alcohol. Lots of alcohol. He was a soldier, he had encountered loss, he had had men die in front of him, but it was nothing compared to the emptiness and horror that had followed The Fall. It was like being shot all over again, with sleepless nights and waking up screaming.

But then a year had gone by and the pain had lessened, he found he could look people in the eyes again and not just see pity, but friendliness. He started going to the pub with Greg occasionally, an occasionally that turned into a regular weekly routine. He cleared all of Holmes documents and instruments and put them into what had been his bedroom on the idea that he would clear the whole thing out eventually, but deciding that small steps were the best. Hell, he'd even managed a few dates towards the end. But meeting with Mycroft had set the process back months. Mycroft had tried to suggest John moving location, something about protection from a new threat, a suspected colleague of Moriarty, some army buff or..something... John couldn't remember the details as not long after Mycroft had used Holmes first name and John had shot holes in the Diogenes Club walls.

And then after the recovery, after building a new life, not a perfect one, but a bearable one, he had come back. Holmes had come back from the bloody dead and ruined everything all over again. John's first reaction had been horror. Had his depression really driven him to start hallucinating? Euphoria followed, his best friend, back at last, the one last miracle.

And then came the resentment.

With Holmes came all the hatred and bitterness that had building in John over the past three years. Why had he put him through this? Fake his own death? Let his name fall to ruin? Why had he left John when he was so alone and _he knew that if he left John would have nothing._

Holmes never talked of what had happened. He simply replied with

"I had no choice, you must trust me."

to every question John either pleaded or screamed at him. The deceit, the lies, the pain. He didn't care. What was worst, and John hated himself for being so petty about it, was that Holmes hadn't even apologised. Now, four weeks after the miraculous resurrection of The Great Detective, John stalked the streets of London as the streetlights flickered on to combat the deepening dark, and he knew exactly what he needed. Alcohol, and lots of it.


	2. Chapter 2

The uppercut came out of nowhere and caught John directly under the chin sending him flying backwards into the rowdy gathering crowd and ending up sprawled on the stinking floor of the grimy pub. He groaned a little as he pulled himself up, and it took a moment for his eyes to focus again. Surrounding him were a disorientating amount of faces, all laughing or yelling, though whether they were rooting for him or the heavy of whom he was brawling against, he found difficult to tell. He spotted his attacker advancing once again, all beer-belly and baldness and height. Bloody hell he was quite tall. But this time John's military training kicked in and he blocked the right hook in time to counter with a jab to the stomach and then the throat. Choking, the thug faltered long enough for John to catch him perfectly on the temple with a clean hook of his own. He had been drunk before the fight began, staggering around and yelling raucously at the other drinkers, but as the last blow caught him the drunk slumped to the ground and stayed there. The pub fell silent, all the jeering and whooping diminishing to murmurs and the rustling of money being handed over on bets. John stood there for a few seconds, his own head swimming from the stupid amount of beer in his system, and he struggled to make his way to the bar, reaching into his pocket to pay his tab. The barman was tall and thin and simply pointed to the door and snarled "Out."

John threw down the money and marched himself through the dirty doors into the cold street outside. Stopping, he looked up to the sky in the vain hope that he would be able to see the stars like he once had before, but, unsurprisingly it was cloudy and all there was to see was blackness. John inhaled deeply, held it for a second and then breathed out, the air misting in front of him like smoke. Exhaustion suddenly came upon him like a net and his limbs felt heavier than they had in months. All he wanted was to go home and collapse in his own flat without having to face what waited for him there. He could just stay out here, couldn't he? Or maybe spend the night on Greg's sofa? No...no this was stupid, why should he run away from the man?

_Because he hurt you. He left you and he destroyed you, and now he's back to do it again._

But did he really believe that still? An image of dark messy hair, sharp cheek bones and pale eyes like silver swam to his thoughts and John's chest tightened so much he couldn't stop the small gasp from escaping his lips. Yes, he did still believe that, at least a lot of him did. But perhaps another part was beginning to resist, a small part, tiny in fact, but at least something was beginning to remember times before The Fall. John shook his head and rubbed his eyes vigorously. He needed to sober up, the last thing he needed to do was return to Baker Street so plastered that he might start a fight with Holmes, or worse, have another break down in front of him. Why had he started the fight with the thug again? As John began to wander in the general direction of home he tried to collect his fuzzy thoughts and remember what it was that had caused him to lash out at the larger man. His knuckled stung slightly from where they had connected with the man skull, and he raised his fist to his lips to run his tongue over the torn skin absently. The slight salty taste of blood sharpened his thoughts and he suddenly recalled what had been said that provoked had provoked him to throw the first punch.

"_Oi oi, hey Mike, look who it is, aint that Sherlock Holmes boy?" _

Boy? _Boy? _He hadn't been called a boy in decades, and _never _in the context of which the vulgar tone of the mans slurred words was implying. He was not _anyone's __**boy. **_Least of all Holmes'. He was John Watson, army doctor; he had fought in wars, seen men die, trained soldier. John decided he was too drunk to walk home when someone was shouting, annoyingly loudly about not being gay and he realised it was him. Sloppily hailing a cab, he almost fell into the vehicle and slurred something he hoped sounded like, "Baker Street, please." before lolling into sweet unconsciousness in the back seat.


	3. Chapter 3

He was stood outside St Bartholomew's hospital, paralysed on the spot, completely unable to move as he watched the dark silhouette of Sherlock stretch out his arms like a crucifix. Standing on the top of the immense building, for a moment the man looked as though he was about to unfurl colossal wings and swoop down. But he didn't. As he began to tip forward, John opened his mouth and tried to scream but no noise came out, there was only a dull ringing in his ears and the sense of complete and utter hopelessness.  
"_SHERLOCK!"_

He plummeted like a rock, his long coat flapping out behind him as his hair whirled around his face, pale eyes fixed on the final inevitable destination below.  
"_SHERLOCK NO, PLEASE!"_

The dull ringing in his ears was only interrupted by the dull crack as the dark shape hit the concrete below, blood gushing from pale flesh, piercing blue eyes looking up to the sky, dead and unseeing-

"**_SHERLOCK!"_** John propelled his body forwards suddenly only to land with a muffled thud on carpeted floor entangled in sweaty bed sheets, panting heavily. There was no pale crumpled body or blood spattered pavement, only a warm bedroom and the remainder of a recurring nightmare. Groaning inwardly, he raised his wrist near his eyes to try and make out the time in the dim light of the curtained room, only to find that his watch had been removed. Stumbling blindly over to the window he wrenched open the heavy curtains. London was laid out before him, cars driving by, people walking hurriedly along the streets to work, distant sirens wailing and the sky boasting a mix of dull grey clouds. Ah, sweet England.

Turning around to face the disordered bed sheets his eyebrows furrowed. He didn't remember getting into bed last night. Glancing down his body only led to further confusion as he realised he had slept in a shirt that wasn't his, whilst the clothes he had been wearing last night were folded neatly on top his set of draws. Realisation only made him suck in air sharply between his teeth with sudden annoyance.

_Bastard. _

John snatched up a pair of jeans from the floor and hastily pulled them on before storming out into the living room. Holmes was bent over the desk, peering into his microscope at god-knows-what-this-time, his blue dressing gown draped over his slim figure, highlighting the movements of his sharp shoulder blades as he twisted the dials on the instrument. John's irritation wasn't enough to stop him from noticing how ruffled his flatmates hair was and how dark the shadows under his eyes had become, the contrast of these against his natural pallor making him look like a living vampire. This was all clear evidence that he probably hadn't slept in about 36 hours, but John wasn't in the mood to be sympathetic.

"You know, I understand that you consider the rest of us inferior people incapable of most things, but changing my clothes and putting me to bed is really starting to take the piss." The words were snarled through bared lips. This was the first time he had spoken to Holmes in days and his voice was rough and sharp. John's own tone reminded him of days on the frontline, growling orders over the sound of gunfire. But this wasn't heated war; this was a cold, icy battle between The Heart and The Mind, between Holmes' stubbornness and John's betrayal.

Holmes didn't even look up, "On the basis that you mistook Mrs Hudson for Her Majesty, I thought it best that you were assisted to your room."

The rich baritone of his voice wasn't enough to conceal the slight smirk that played across his lips. John's eyes closed slightly as he took this in, God, he had been drunk last night. But even so,

"Even if I was drunk, you didn't have to go and bloody change what I was wearing! Whose shirt even is this?" He asked, pulling on the fabric.

"Your clothing was damp and reeked of alcohol; I changed you for the sake of the flats scent, nothing else. The shirt is mine." Holmes replied, still not lifting his eyes from the microscope but extending his hand to search through the papers that lay next to him as he spoke.

His shirt? Why hadn't Holmes just put him in one of Johns own shirts? Sod it, why should he care about the reasons Holmes acted how he did? John made a small growling sound in the back of his throat before grasping the hem of the fabric and pulling it over his head and tossing it at the taller man. It landed perfectly on his head, covering his entire face and John allowed himself a quick childish grin of amusement. "There, take your bloody shirt, and get some sleep yourself before you die on me again."

John bit his lip as Holmes plucked the material from his head and looked up in surprise at the amount of bitterness that had come through in the words. _Shit. _After the initial joy of his return John had mostly managed to keep a lid on his anger, remain cold and closed off, but now he had let one thing slip it all began flooding through. As Holmes straightened up to stand before him his eyes were narrowed, analysing Johns face, trying to decipher his thoughts before John had time to think them himself. Heat flushed across his face and he suddenly didn't care about control. _Fucking lying bastard. _

**_"Do you have any idea what you put me through? Do you?" _**Holmes' eyes widened as John snarled, his mouth parting slightly as though he were about to speak but John cut him off, his voice steadily rising.

**_ "You think it's acceptable to fake your own fucking death and then come back and expect to not have to explain yourself? I mourned for you Holmes, for three fucking years I mourned the death of the only friend I ever really had." _**

**_"_**John, I had no-"

"**_No. Dont you fucking say that again." _**John roared, surging forward and grabbing Holmes by the front of his dressing gown. He was a good foot shorter than him, but he was by far stronger and managed to drag him down so they were face to face. Holmes' face was a mixture of apprehension and an emotion John couldn't recognise. Guilt? Sorrow? Fear?

"John, please, you must trust me when I say that I did it for the right reasons." His voice was quiet and almost pleading, his blue eyes blazed with sincerity as they burned into Johns, his eyebrows knitted together with seriousness. But it was still just a mask, a line delivered by a brilliant actor who was still trying to hide the truth. John's breath came in small gasps which descended into small dry sobs. The tension in his shoulders and snarl on his lips softened as he shook his head slightly and murmured,

"I was so alone...I thought I owed you so much." He released the blue gown from his grip and turned away from the other man, the unbearable sense of vulnerability washing over him, causing a shiver to creep down his naked spine. All he had wanted in the time Holmes had been gone was for him to come back, and now he was here, he just wanted to run away. From this man, this _monster,_ that had reached into his chest and thoroughly fucked with his heartstrings. He couldn't stand him anymore. And it wasn't the strange things that bothered him, like the violin playing; the fact he rarely ate or slept or even the occasional human body parts scattered throughout the kitchen. It was the fact that he seemed genuinely sorry but didn't do anything to make up for the fact he had utterly destroyed John. Rage flashed through his body once more, and at precisely that moment Holmes made the mistake of laying a cool hand on the smaller man's bare shoulder : "John, please I know-"

"**_BASTARD!"_** John twisted sharply around , and for the second time in 24 hours, caught a man with a devastatingly effective right hook which sent Holmes crumpling onto the desk, his earlier experiment clattering to the floor. By the time he could focus his bludgeoned thoughts enough to call out for John through a mouthful of broken tooth and blood, his flatmate had already grabbed a fresh shirt, coat and was out the door and onto the street again.


	4. Chapter 4

**"SHERLOCK HOLMES"**

That was all the gravestone read against the black stone, just a name. But Sherlock Holmes wasn't just a name any more, it was a legend. John stood in the drizzle, drops of water dripping down from his damp hair and his jacket collar pulled about his neck, as he gazed at the grave he had visited countless times before. But this, like so many other things in John's life, was a lie. The body buried beneath the dirt was not that of the genius, the tears he had shed had been pointless. But as he flexed his bruised knuckles, he felt slightly better. He had needed to get angry; he had needed to lash out. Telling Sherlock how he really felt, about what he had put him through, had allowed John to accept that he had been destroyed by the man. But now, after that acceptance, he felt he was ready to recover.

"Sherlock." He said the name slowly, letting the word drip off his tongue. There was a tightening in his chest, and his lip twitched a little in a vain attempt at resistance, but other than that he found that he was able to say the name without wanting to seriously maim himself or anyone else. He said it again, and again, getting louder each time until he was shouting it into the hazy rain, a breathless smile forming on his lips as he realised that things were going to get better. After all, they couldn't get much worse.

He hadn't forgiven Sherlock yet, and he wouldn't for a long time, but he was back. John wasn't alone anymore. His best friend was home.

On that thought he straightened up, a small smile remaining on his face, and walked from the graveyard whilst pulling his phone out his pocket and typing the message:  
**Don't try the stitches yourself. Wait until I get back. –JW**  
"Sherlock." He whispered the word once more before turning onto the main road and hailing a cab.

Sherlock snatched his phone from the table as it buzzed and read the text once before flinging down the surgical needle he had been holding in his hand with an exasperated sigh. Tilting the mirror opposite to him, he examined the cut once more, noting with appreciation how carefully John had managed to avoid his nose and the front of his mouth. _Still cares about me. _Well, that was obvious, or else he wouldn't be so upset about his return. But no, what was interesting about John's behaviour was how extreme it was. Sherlock raised his hand to his lips, pressing his fingertips together and leaning back in his chair as he let his thoughts flow. Lestrade had known him for five years longer than John, yet after his immediate shock he had only been upset because of what Sherlock had put John through. He had already been aware that his relationship with John wasn't a typical friendship but he began to worry that maybe he had forged something more serious than a platonic bond between the two of them. Something unfamiliar twisted in his guts as he considered the notion but he quickly stored it away in his mind to come back to later as he heard the unmistakable steady footsteps of John coming up the stairs.

The dampness of Johns clothing told Sherlock that he had been outside for at least 20 minutes but where the jacket had started to dry slightly showed that he had been under cover for roughly 8 minutes on the way home. A significant place to John, 8 minutes ride away could only be the graveyard where the body of Mr Benjamin Withers was buried under a stone bearing Sherlock's name, this idea fitting with the fact that John would retreat to a place of familiar comfort and condolence after such an emotional outburst. But why was that slight smile playing across his lips? It wasn't bitter it was genuine which could only mean..._of course. _The act of punching Sherlock had allowed him to vent his suppressed emotions and consequently acted as closure on the "Anger" stage of his psychological recovery. Good.

During the time that it took Sherlock to process the entirety of this John had just unzipped his jacket.  
"Right, I only think you'll need a few, but I know what you're like at tending to your own wounds." John murmured as he knelt down to take a closer look at the blossoming gash that was rising against pale skin. Sherlock tilted his head slightly to allow John a better look but also so he could watch John's own face as he worked. The focus of a trained doctor took over the warm eyes and the strong jaw was clenched gently in concentration as he threaded the needle. Aware that he was being scrutinised, John raised his gaze briefly to meet with the cool stare that Sherlock was giving him, but their proximity and his remaining shreds of resentment allowed only a second of eye contact before it was broken. _Improvement, _Sherlock thought, suppressing the smile that threatened to form. John was recovering, but slowly. Sherlock hated himself for the pain he had put his only friend through; he loathed himself for being the cause of the tension between them, but he just wasn't sure how to make things better.  
His thoughts were interrupted sharply as John plunged the needle into his face, causing him to gasp with sudden pain and surprise, but he managed to control his body from jerking which would of only consequenced in further discomfort.  
"Sorry." John muttered briefly. Of course, an apology, that's what he needed to do. He barely winced as the doctor slipped the needle through a second time, and then a third, completing the operation smoothly in seconds. As soon as he leaned away from him, Sherlock briefly examined his neat new stitches in the mirror on the table, before turning and grabbing Johns wrist as he began to walk away.

John started and twisted his wrist away from the light grip that Sherlock had had on him, his facial expression cautious and unnerved by the sudden physical contact. Sherlock pushed himself from the chair slowly and stepped closer to the smaller man, his tongue between his teeth as he considered how to phrase this right.  
"John, look. I know that what I did, to you at least, wasn't...right" At this Johns, eyebrows shot up into his hairline the start of a retort forming on his lips ("Thanks for the bloody understatement." Or something to that effect probably), but Sherlock started again before he could speak.  
"I know that what I did to you wasn't fair. I'm not going to ask you to trust me anymore." At this John's stance relaxed a little, his eyelids fluttered and his head tilted as he considered the words. Sherlock took one small step closer, close enough that he could read Johns emotion in his eyes, but not so close that he was towering over him. The last thing he wanted to do was to make his flatmate feel vulnerable again.  
"John," his voice cracked slightly as he struggled to restrain the impulse to reach out and grasp the opposite mans shoulders. "John, I'm sorry for hurting you. I'm so, so sorry."

At this Johns shoulders slumped and his face fell slack, his jaw hanging loosely in shock and his eyes shining in surprise and sudden emotion as he gazed up at Sherlock. Sherlock stood for a second, feeling slightly uncomfortable, unsure if what he had said wasn't socially acceptable or that he had made a mistake in apologising at all. He was just about to walk away, prepared to continue as if nothing had happened when John closed the gap between them with a single step and wrapped his arms around the taller mans slim frame in a tight clutch. His blonde head was buried in the shoulder of Sherlock's shirt, but though his surprise, he managed to make out the muffled words  
"I missed you."  
Sherlock forced his limbs to move, to respond to the human contact by closing one arm across Johns back. He was overcome with a sudden emotion that he couldn't identify, it was strange and unfamiliar and he wasn't sure if he liked it or not yet, but returning John's hug seemed like the right thing to do. In a whisper that was barely audible but one he knew John would hear with ease, he replied with the four honest words that had burned through him the past three years.  
"I missed you too."


	5. Chapter 5

**"**You know I still haven't forgiven you, don't you?"  
Sherlock made a small, deep noise at the back of his throat without looking up from his laptop. John raised his own eyes from the newspaper and shifted his position on the sofa where he was stretched out so that he could turn and look directly at the other man. He continued to stare until Sherlock finally rolled his eyes and met his gaze with his lips pouted slightly in disapproval.  
"You know I'm still angry." John's voice was calm and reasonable, it sounded more like he was commenting on the weather than trying to discuss their complicated and fractured relationship. Sherlock's head inclined slightly and his lip twitched in a friendly manner, his thick eyelashes closed once slowly over his pale eyes before he said with a voice deep and rich like velvet, "I know, I understand."  
John nodded once before returning his gaze to the article he had been reading. He still felt rather embarrassed by the sudden embrace he had trapped his flatmate in last night, but he didn't suppose Sherlock would think much of it.

Sherlock had never been interested in human contact or communication, and John was pretty certain he had no experience in the area of relationships. Evidence of that was in his manipulation and dismissal of Molly Hooper's affection and his complete bafflement when dealing with The Woman. John couldn't control the small clench in his jaw as he remembered her. Tall, slender, intelligent...and an utter subjugating bitch. It was like meeting a female Sherlock, except she knew how to use sex to her advantage. John suddenly imagined Sherlock trying to use sex to gain an advantage in a case and was torn between trying to suppress a laugh and feeling his cheeks warm in a slight blush.  
Wait.  
No.  
He did not just fucking blush.  
_Over Sherlock_.  
Folding his newspaper abruptly, John rolled up from the sofa and wandered into the kitchen, deliberately avoiding looking at the pale shape working in the arm chair. He flicked the kettle on with a swipe and reached up to grab a mug for some morning coffee, but stretching as tall as he could go he could only graze the porcelain edge with a finger tip. Scowling, he tried again, hopping slightly on his tiptoes.  
"How cute." Came a smooth voice from only inches away and John jumped violently as a slender arm reached past him and plucked two mugs from the cupboard and set them down quietly on the counter. Catching his breath, John turned to scowl at the other man.  
"Would you mind making some bloody noise when you move? It's like living with a ghost." John's guts twisted and he instantly regretted his choice of words, but Sherlock didn't seem to notice.  
"Trained soldiers should always be on their guard John, you're losing your edge." He retorted without a smile, and John was about to throw something at him when he winked and handed him a steaming mug of coffee.  
"White, no sugar, correct?"  
John raised one eyebrow and nodded, accepting the drink and sipping it slightly as Sherlock returned to his chair. It was surprisingly good which made a change from his other attempts at creating anything that was supposed to be edible. It was also very unnerving. John understood that Sherlock was trying to make amends, but making coffee and _jokes_... It was certainly strange. John also recalled how the man's body had pressed against his back as he reached past him for the mugs, how close the two of them had been, almost..._intimate_. No. _No_, that was ridiculous. Sherlock had made it clear in their first week together, relationships were "not his area" and that he considered himself "married to his work". The strange, quirky genius was asexual, completely uninterested in physical or emotional relationships, and he was happy that way.

Right?

"John, sit down for god's sake, I can hear you thinking and it's distracting."  
John made a sound that was half sigh and half laugh as he set down his coffee and stalked out of the kitchen towards the bathroom.  
"_Git"_ He muttered as he passed Sherlock's chair and as he closed the bathroom door he heard a deep and quiet chuckle coming from the living room.

John braced both hands on either side of the sink and looked steadily into his reflection, taking in his features. His tanned skin made him look a little younger than he really was, hiding a few wrinkles that were beginning to form across his forehead and around his eyes. His strong jaw and the cut it was now sporting (thanks to the thug in the pub the other night) gave him a serious air, coupled with his steady, dark-blue gaze he couldn't help but appreciate the way the soldier in him hadn't aged. He began to unbutton his shirt, strong fingers making short work of it, and let it drop to the floor. God, he hadn't looked at himself properly in a while. His muscles were still strong, his arms corded and chest broad, his stomach held firm by the strength that remained there. Maybe he should start exercising again, after all it couldn't hurt. But as he rolled his shoulders, the familiar twinge of the healed flesh there reminded him that actually yes it would hurt. John fixed his eyes on his reflection once again, glaring into his own eyes. _No, _he told himself, _I can get stronger. I will not make excuses any more. _As he turned to examine the old wound his eyes fell on a newer scar, a dark patch of skin, still slightly purple, that wound around his throat and the back of his neck. He sighed as he trailed his fingers over the darkened flesh, shuddering slightly at the memory of two years ago.

Pushing the thought to the back of his mind he began to unzip his jeans before the door swung open and Sherlock wandered in as if it was the most natural thing in the world.  
"Sherlock, what the hell do you think you're doing?" John protested as the other man began sifting through the laundry that had been gathering in the corner of the tiled room.  
"Hmm? Oh, I'm looking for the jumper you were wearing the other night when you got into that fight. The blood spatter on it was rather unique and I was going to try and see if I could replicate it." He said distractedly, flinging dirty clothes aside as he continued his search.  
"Did you not think to knock, maybe?" John said, re-zipping his jeans quickly and crossing his arms over his chest, trying to sound more annoyed than nervous.  
"Knock? Why would I knock?" Sherlock didn't look up, but John watched as his expression changed for a second to seem genuinely confused before resuming to the default of superiority and asking blindly with a humoured smile, "What, are you concerned about me seeing you naked?"  
John shifted uncomfortably on his feet before answering, "No, I'm concerned about your views on privacy. A man should be able to take a shower without having to worry about someone walking in all the time. And anyway, you folded that jumper up in my room after you stripped it off me when I was drunk, remember? What kind of genius are you if you can't even remember what you did two days ago."  
"The best kind of genius, of course." Sherlock replied as he darted out of the room towards John's bedroom. John shook his head in astonishment, before closing the door again and stripping off his remaining clothing. He had just stepped under the running water when the door opened again.  
"John, it wasn't there, have you moved it since-"  
"_Bloody hell Sherlock, get out!"  
_"But John, I _need _it for-"  
"_OUT!"  
_But Sherlock didn't move. He was frozen and staring at him, a mixture of horror and pain written across his face, which had seemed to grow paler suddenly, as the water continued to run over Johns naked body.  
"_Sherlock, what in hell are you-"_  
"John, why would you do that?" The quiet terror in his voice making John freeze himself before turning off the water and stepping out onto the tiled floor, wrapping a towel around his waist. This close he could see the panic written across Sherlock's face and his blood ran cold.  
"Sherlock, what's wrong?" His own voice was struggling to mask his own panic that was rising inside of him. He had never seen his friend like this before, his silvery eyes were shining so much it looked almost as if they were brimming with tears, but that was ridiculous, wasn't it? John watched nervously as Sherlock raised one slender arm and brushed his pale cool fingers over the warm damp skin of John's neck, and he shuddered slightly at the touch. His eyes widened and his breath hitched as the brief idea that Sherlock was making a move on him slid to the centre of his thoughts, but as a single tear rolled down one pale cheek John knew that was stupid and that something was seriously wrong.  
"_Sherlock, tell me what's-"  
_"This was because of me, wasn't it?" Sherlock whispered his breath short and gasping. John suddenly understood and lowered his eyes to the floor. Ah, _that._ Sherlock stepped closer and peered over Johns shoulder to look at the mark across his neck in more detail. John stood frozen, wanting to comfort his friend but having no idea how to, also painfully aware that they were stood mere inches apart and he was only wearing a towel.  
"You were interrupted?" The deep voice cracked as he spoke, the proximity of the men meaning John could hear the raw pain in the words.  
"Mycroft. I guess he had a watch over me or something-"  
"John, I'm so sorry. I don't believe I drove you to this. I'm so, so-" But at this his voice gave out and he lowered his head onto the shorter mans shoulders, wrapping his arms around his stocky frame and began sobbing gently into the still-wet skin. John's breath caught in his throat.  
It had been a very dark period of his life when he had tried to kill himself on a wild desperate notion that Sherlock, his best friend, wouldn't just let him hang there to die. He had been at his most unstable at the time, believing that if Sherlock didn't come and save him, at least he wouldn't be alone any more. But his attempt had been cut short abruptly by the elder of the Holmes brothers who had burst in and, after cutting John down, gave him a very long and very boring lecture about acting irrationally. John had never tried it again.  
Sherlock continued to weep into John's naked shoulder, but as John eased him gently off he wiped his hands violently across his face and sniffed sharply. His eyes were puffy and red under his dark mop of hair that fell messily over his face and his lip continued to tremble slightly. It was so uncharacteristic of him that John temporarily forgot that it was Sherlock that he was dealing with, and reached up to lay a warm hand against the other mans pale cheek.  
"It's okay," he said softly, "Just promise me this: Next time you disappear for three years, you'll try and call every once in a while, yeah?"  
Sherlock let out a short hoarse laugh and then shook his head furiously.  
"No, no. I'm never leaving you again. I promise." He said the last two words with fierce certainty, and with that he wiped at his eyes one more time before whirling around and out of the room, leaving John thoroughly confused about the emotions that he was experiencing right then.


	6. Chapter 6

**Fancy a beer, chance for both of us to escape our sociopaths? -G  
**John's phone buzzed as his last patient for the day left the room. He read the text with a small smile and replied, agreeing to meet Greg at 8 at The Local. He hadn't seen him much since Sherlock's return and he felt as though he had been neglecting the strong friendship that had formed between them after The Fall. After all, he didn't recon The Worlds Only Consulting Detective would miss him tonight. For the past two days, after the bathroom incident, Sherlock hadn't moved from the sofa, he simply lay there and stared up into the ceiling, occasionally murmuring something incoherent. John was slightly concerned that Sherlock was abusing substances again and had been close to throwing the semi-comatosed man into an icy bath. However, he had then noticed the five smoking patches on Sherlock's forearm and, though the idea was still tempting, decided against introducing him to freezing cold water for the meanwhile. Whatever was occupying the brilliant mind of Sherlock Holmes, it would probably be occupying it for a good couple more days, and with that many patches he doubted the detective would be able to do himself much damage when left alone. John would just have to remember to leave some food within reaching distance of the sofa tonight.  
Plus, from the sound of the text, it seemed Greg was having troubles with his wife again, and though John was pretty useless at advice, he knew how much a drink with a friend could help ease the pain.

Just as he expected, Sherlock was still laid out on the sofa once he got home, remained completely still for the time that John spent in the flat showering and changing clothes, and didn't make a sound until John reached for the door to go and meet Lestrade.  
"Where are you going?" The rumbling voice asked suddenly out of the silence.  
"Going to meet Greg for a beer down the pub. I'll be back later." But as John went to leave the room his way was suddenly blocked by the tall, drowsy figure that had stumbled up from the sofa.  
"Why?" The accusatory tone of the question making Sherlock sound like a petulant child demanding to know why he wasn't allowed something.  
"Why? Sherlock, because sometimes real people like to go out and socialise after a rough week of real-people work. I know that this must seem incredulous to you, but not everyone wishes to spend their Friday night in the company of a living statue." With that John tried to step around his flatmate to reach the stairs, but Sherlock moved with him to block his way again.  
"Why Lestrade?" Sherlock was failing miserably to hide the jealousy in his voice; the words slurred slightly as he struggled to keep his eyes open and stand straight at the same time. John grinned at how childish the genius became when under the influence of medication, deciding to milk the opportunity for all it was worth by patting Sherlock's messy curls in the most patronising manner he could accustom.  
"Because he's my _friend_, Sherlock." His voice took on the tone of someone talking to an infant. "Now why don't you go lay down and John will be back later."  
"Oh _shut up." _The taller man snapped as he pulled away and staggered back into the flat. John laughed softly as he headed down the stairs, and was just about to close the front door when the sound of clumsy footsteps sounded on the wooden planks of the hall. Sherlock approached him, now fully dressed (although his shirt buttons were done up wrong) and raised his eyebrows expectantly.  
"Are we going then, or were you planning to just stand there all night?"

Greg's eyebrows shot up into his hairline as he saw Sherlock Holmes follow John into the pub, but he shouldn't have been so surprised, John and Sherlock had been almost inseparable before The Fall, it made sense that they would be even closer now. He didn't like how this meant that he would probably be seeing much less of John, who he had begun to consider his best friend, especially as they had helped and been there for each other through the past three years with Johns recovery and his own marriage issues. Letting out a small sigh of disappointment, Greg couldn't help notice how Sherlock's eyes were slightly lidded and how, as he followed John to the bar where he was sat, he tripped slightly.  
"Well, isn't this a nice surprise?" Greg offered a crooked smile to John and twitched his eyebrows meaningfully as he assisted the detective into a seat, the words translating as "_What the hell is he doing here?"  
_ As John met his gaze he widened his eyes and shook his head briefly. "_I have no idea."_  
Greg nodded to Sherlock then twitched his hand in the universal gesture of asking whether Sherlock was drunk, John shook his head slightly again, flicking his eyes towards Sherlock's sleeve which had crept up his arm, exposing three of the five patches that dotted the pale skin. Greg rolled his eyes before beckoning the pretty barmaid over and ordering two beers and a water.  
Despite the presence of the half-conscious genius, the night went okay. Greg and John discussed work and rugby for most of the night whilst the third member of the party gazed dully into the bottom of his glass, only speaking when the discussion briefly came round to Greg's wife and who he had caught her shagging this time.  
"Maybe she'd stop sleeping with other men when you do."  
At this John choked on his drink and Greg froze, staring at Sherlock in disbelief, sweat suddenly beading at the back of his neck. His eyes nervously flickered to John who was mopping up the beer he had spilt down his jumper. Sherlock was swaying unsteadily in his seat but had fixed Greg with a piercing stare that made him feel like he was reading his inner most thoughts, the way the pale irises glinted in the dim light of the pub made a shiver crawl up his spine and he was about to say something, _anything, _to deny and counter the accusation when Sherlock fell forward, his head landing on the bar with a dull thud. John rolled his eyes and gave an exasperated sigh,  
"I think I better take him home before he accuses the barmaid of being a man."  
He glanced apologetically up at his sober friend and pulled out his wallet, handing over a few notes to cover the drinks. Greg forced a small laugh that sounded painfully fake even to his own ears, grateful that John was suggesting that Sherlock's accusation was ludicrous, before helping him drag the taller man into a cab and agreeing on meeting the same time next week, minus a spaced-out consulting detective.

As Greg watched the cab pull away and wandered back into the pub he noticed how his hands were shaking a little, and how that it was probably nothing to do with the alcohol. So Sherlock knew. Well, was he really surprised? The man could read a person's life story in the kind of tie they bought. Greg drank deeply from his glass as he considered what really scared him. It wasn't that Sherlock knew, it was that he might tell John.  
"_Fuck."_ He murmured under his breath, before draining his drink and stalking out of the pub.

"What the hell was that all about, Sherlock?" John hissed angrily has he half-carried his drugged friend up the stairs towards their flat. Sherlock grunted but made no reply, but whimpered slightly as John flicked on the bright light in the living room and flung the slender body onto the sofa.  
"You can be a real arse when you try. Accusing Greg of cheating on his wife isn't going to help his marriage problems, especially with a _man_, Sherlock."  
Sherlock glared up at John as the former soldier angrily clattered around in the kitchen.  
"Letting a man face the truth in a marriage that is doomed is probably the kindest thing I could do."  
John barked a humourless laugh. "Gay? Greg? Are you serious? Sherlock, the man is as straight as a-"  
"_Fine. _Bi-sexual. But he is attracted to men, and you know it but won't accept it. Why? Because you're afraid the bond you formed over the past three years in my absence was more than just friendship to him. You are perfectly aware of the fact that Lestrade is attracted to you, you simply choose to ignore it. Or do you? Every time Lestrade took a drink from his glass you licked your lips, proving that would were watching his. When he offered to pay for the second round, you touched his arm and then his hand before paying yourself, an unusual level of body contact for two sober men don't you think? The way you sat, your leg hung over the side of the chair, pointing your body towards his responded to the way he kept moving his hand subconsciously up and down his own thigh. He's bi-sexual, you're confused and neither of you can face the truth." His speech was fast and deep, the only alteration in his pace was as he snarled the last few words.  
John had stopped moving things in the kitchen and silence reined for about two minutes, neither man moving a muscle. Then John slowly walked into the living room, his face etched with contempt before he spat out a single word, venom dripping from his tongue: "So?"  
Sherlock was taken aback, "So, what?"  
"So, why the fuck should you care?" He snarled, stepping closer, fists clenched.  
"Why do I care? _HA! _John, I don't care at all." He snapped back, twisting on the sofa so he was facing away from Johns angry stance and lying down with a snort like he always did when he was infuriated.  
"_Are you fucking jealous?" _John cried reaching over and yanking on Sherlock's shoulder so he could face him. Sherlock's face remained impassive and cold.  
"Greg was there for me the three years I believed _you were dead, _Sherlock_._ I don't care if he wants to bend me over and fuck me senseless (Sherlock's face blanched as he said this), I owe Greg more than I owe you right now."  
John released the skinny shoulder from his grip in a rough manner that threw Sherlock slightly off the sofa and caused his elbow to crack sharply on the side table, before storming into his own room and slamming the door.


	7. Chapter 7

John leaned against the wood of his door, breathing heavily, his hands still clenched into tight fists. How _dare _he even suggest something like that...how...dare...  
Hmm.  
Wait, No.  
_NO._

John pushed himself away from the wood and scrambled to his bedside cabinet, almost breaking the draw in his haste, throwing the contents across the room in order to find-_yes. _The sleeping tablets he had taken when he had been suffering from the recurring nightmares. They were the strongest you could get legally and were medically prescribed... by himself. John ripped off the cap of the little bottle and swallowed one dry, before stripping down to his underwear and rolling himself into bed, already feeling the effects of the drug. So Greg liked men, so what? It was the twenty first century, homosexuality wasn't unusual and was perfectly acceptable. Plus mild flirtation meant nothing, it was almost to be expected from how close the two of them had become, coupled with the fact that neither of them were having much luck in relationships. If John _had _been responding to any signals Greg had been giving off, it would be only due to the fact he hadn't had sex with anyone but himself in nearly three years. Three years. John thought about that for a moment. He wasn't particularly unattractive, could be charming when he wanted to be, it wasn't like he hadn't had dates for god's sake. He had been an emotional wreck but that didn't mean he couldn't find a shag if he wanted one.  
Why hadn't he slept with anyone?  
Maybe it was just Sherlock's influence on him again, maybe he had ended up idolising the man so much that he had even taken on his asexual nature? John's eyes began to droop and his thoughts fog as the drug finally took full effect, the warm grip of sleep beginning to drag him down into the sweet darkness. He wasn't asexual like the arrogant dick who was probably passed out in the living room, wasn't at all like that stupid, cocky prick... stupid... prick...

_He was pinned to the bed, long white fingers gripping his wrists, bony knees trapping his thighs. Dark thick hair brushed against his bare chest and John gasped as he felt a cool tongue trace the definitions of his muscle. _ _He couldn't stifle the small moan that rose to his throat as he felt the tongue move up his body and onto his neck, the luxurious licks turning into heated kisses and teeth grazed against his throat. John arched his back, pressing his body against the one above him and it pushed back against him, forcing him flat against the soft covers of the mattress. His hands were released from their entrapment as the slender fingers moved down his body sensuously until they reached the waistband of John's straining underwear. Taking this opportunity, John knotted his own fingers into his lovers untamed hair, pulling the talented mouth away from his throat and raising the face above his own, taking in the gorgeous features. Startling blue eyes, flawless pale skin and cheek bones you could cut yourself on. Dragging down the familiar face towards his own, John moaned indulgently as their skin pressed tighter together, as the two lips met in a slow deep kiss, as the fingers around his waistband reached in and gripped his-_

The sound of a police siren shattered Johns dream as he woke blearily, raising his head from the pillow as the offensive noise passed by without stopping (that made a change). As he let his body slump back into the soft covers he became aware of the fact that he laying awkwardly and as he shifted onto his back he realised that it probably had something to do with the painfully hard erection that was pressing against his belly. John looked down at his own body with a confusion that was bordering on shock, he hadn't woken up hard in months, and wasn't it just last night that he had almost considered himself asexual? _Last night..._

The remnants of a dream teased at the edge of his mind and he tried desperately to remember what it had been about, but the sleeping pill was still in effect and it slipped away from his thoughts like water through a colander. He was barely conscious of the fact that his own hand had slipped into his underwear and was stroking himself, he was hardly aware of the small moans of pleasure that escaped his clenched jaw, the satisfaction of the sensation clouding any other thoughts. He bit down on his own fist, panting as he felt his body tense up. A stifled cry filled the room as his body jerked and he rocked into his climax, letting the hot fluid spatter up his own chest and stomach. He lay there for a good five minutes, catching his breath and staring up at his ceiling before the semen on his body began to cool and dry unpleasantly.  
After listening outside his door until he was certain he wasn't going to bump straight into his roommate if he walked down to the bathroom as he was, he darted through the short hallway and closed the door to the tiled room, praying that Sherlock would remember what he had said about privacy. Stepping under the hot stream of water John tried again to remember what he had dreamt, but could only dredge up the image of plump, biteable lips. He sighed before switching the temperature of water to cold and standing there until his second erection of the morning died down.

Mycroft Holmes looked up from his cup of Earl Grey as a topless John wandered into the living room, towelling his hair dry and yawning loudly. He raised a single eyebrow in disapproval but this was ignored by both the doctor and his own younger brother who was flicking through the file he had just handed him. As John switched the kettle on and scoured the cupboards for something remotely edible, Sherlock closed the file with a snap and tossed it on the coffee table. "Not Interested." He stated, boredom lacing each syllable.  
"Sherlock, be reasonable, you know what is at cost here."  
"I do and that is precisely why I'm not interested."  
A muscle in Mycroft's jaw twitched, but instead of getting angry, as he was ever tempted to do in the presence of his irksome younger sibling, he simply smiled tightly and picked up the file, storing it away in the expensive leather briefcase that lay at his feet.  
"I see."

If Sherlock was surprised about this sudden change of tone, he didn't show it, but then again he never did. Neither of them did. Mycroft's eyes flickered towards John who was now slathering jam thickly over a piece of toast nonchalantly.  
"I understand how you must have priorities in your line of work, Little Brother. I'd hate to think you'd just-" Suddenly, the small smile of Mr British Government became icy. "-leave something hanging."  
He had hit a nerve and he knew it as Sherlock stood suddenly and walked over to the window, snatching his violin from the desk. He glared out onto the street as he plucked violently at the strings, and as John finally decided to acknowledge the presence of the older Holmes brother. To Mycroft, it had always seemed that John found communicating with him challenging,, but this had probably been made worse by the fact that he had interrupted his attempted suicide.

"What's this about?" John asked bluntly, nodding towards the angry silhouette of Sherlock whilst sipping his tea.  
"My dear brother seems to think that the safety of our own nation is not worth a small risk of his own." Mycroft replied, pulling on his coat whilst maintaining a cold stare directed at the back of Sherlock's head. John's face suddenly seemed to age years as he stuttered,  
"It not, you know- it can't be, it's not-"  
"No, John. James Moriarty is dead, not even a genius can fake a bullet through the skull. However, this is connected to him. We received a message six hours ago from Sebastian Moran."  
John's face remained blank. Mycroft sighed heavily.  
"I spoke to you about him shortly before you shot holes in the 400 year old walls of the Diogenes Club"  
If John was embarrassed about this fact he didn't show it, he simply smiled like a child remembering a particularly good Christmas.  
"Carrying on." Mycroft snapped sharply. " Sebastian Moran has been on our watch-list for the past 24 months, but as of last week locating him became our top priority following the sudden death of the Home Secretary."  
"What? Why? The news said she had suffered a heart att-"  
"Don't be dense, John. It was an assassination of course."  
"Well then why-"  
"Are you honestly entertaining the thought that Britain is happy to internationally broadcast that key members of the government are being shot down in the twenty first century? John, please..."  
John simply glared at him as he chuckled condescendingly, obviously not willing to have his speech cut off again.  
"Moran has claimed responsibility for the killing and has now presented us with an offer."

John crossed his arms over his naked chest, a serious expression crossing over his features as he glanced worriedly at the dark figure of Sherlock who had begun to play a softer and more sorrowful tune as Mycroft had been speaking.  
"Moran has reliably informed us that another person shall die for every 48 hours that we do not present him with his price."  
John raised his eyebrows, unimpressed.  
"So? Pay him, since when was money an issue in things like this?"  
Mycroft had to bite back the insult that was burning on his tongue. How on earth did Sherlock manage to _live _with someone so incompetent?  
"His price, Doctor Watson, isn't money as you so simply put it. You remember that I said Sebastian Moran was connected to James Moriarty? Well it seems that he believes in the old philosophy of "An eye for an eye.""  
Sherlock suddenly threw down the violin and stormed between the two men, grabbing John's gun which had been lying on the mantelpiece and shot a single bullet into the wall, directly between the two dotted eyes of the yellow smiley face spray-painted there. He twisted his head to face Mycroft before spitting out, "The only way he'll ever get _his price_, as you so delicately put it _Brother Dear, _is if he comes and gets it himself."  
"You do realise that that is exactly what he plans to do, Sherlock?" Mycroft maintained his composure but couldn't stop his voice from becoming just as venomous.  
"Can somebody tell me what his bloody price is?" John protested, clearly annoyed at being left out on this vital piece of information.  
Sherlock stood frozen to the spot as Mycroft turned to John slowly, the fixed smile returning to his face.  
"Sebastian Moran wants only one thing in the exchange for the lives of the innocent, and that, Doctor Watson-" He said silkily, "-is you."


	8. Chapter 8

"Stop it." Sherlock snapped, interrupting the steady silence which the two of them had been sitting in for the past hour. He knew exactly what John was thinking and it worried him. He couldn't give in like this; he needed John to stay strong if his plan was going to work.  
"John, I said stop it."  
The soldier continued to ignore him. Sherlock watched in concern and irritation as the other man, who was still shirtless, rose up slowly from his chair and wandered into the kitchen. When he emerged he was carrying a bottle of beer and was in the process of lighting a cigarette. As he blew out the smoke, Sherlock couldn't stop himself from admiring how it curled around lips, and how this angry, loutish image strangely suited the doctor. He let his eyes wander across John's body, taking in the scars and knots of muscle that covered his arms and shoulders, admiring how the man wasn't short as such, simply compact. As John raised the bottle to his mouth, Sherlock took in a hundred tiny details at once. The way John's tongue flicked out slightly to meet the tip of the bottle, the movement of his throat as he swallowed the cold liquid and how tense his shoulders and neck were. He also noted how his breathing had become slightly raspy, a sign that his clean lungs were struggling with the sudden introduction of tar and nicotine.  
"John."  
The man dragged up his eyes finally to meet the gaze of the detective, "I'm going to do it."  
"No you're not."  
"And let people die? No, Sherlock, we played that game once before. Do you remember, The Great Game?" John's voice was little more than a sarcastic murmur.  
"I said I wasn't going to leave you again. John, I promised." Sherlock struggled to restrain the emotion that was threatening to break from his lips, his voice beginning to become louder and louder.  
"Yeah, funny how things change when the fate of the British Public rest on your head." John retorted, pulling his phone out of his pocket. Sherlock leapt up suddenly, snatching the mobile from his hand, throwing it on the floor and crushing it under the heel of his shoe.  
"_You are not going to hand yourself over to this idiot." _He snarled, looming inches away from Johns face, lips curled back ad eyes blazing. It seem Johns calm exterior was to snap at the same time, dropping both his drink and cigarette on the floor as he grabbed the collar of Sherlock's jacket and slammed him against the wall, forcing the air out of his lungs.  
"_This isn't a fucking game, Sherlock. People will die if I don't, INNOCENT PEOPLE." _John roared, his grip tightening even more around the other mans clothing. Sherlock watched the fury burn in the warm eyes of his friend, the fierce loyalty to his country, the bravery of the soldier. Bravery had always been the kindest word for stupidity.

Sherlock suddenly imagined what it would be like to lose John again, to think of him every day, of what he would say and do if he were beside him. He imagined how it would feel to wake up and know that Dr John Watson MD wasn't out there, somewhere, waiting for him to come home. He imagined never having the opportunity to let John know how much he meant to him and how he had always mattered the most. It was time for John to know the truth.

John was breathing heavily, his naked chest rising and falling in a steady motion, his muscles twitching and his jaw clenched as he held Sherlock firmly in place against the wall. The taller man inhaled deeply once, closed his eyes and let the air escape his lungs.  
"John, it was for you." He whispered, opening his eyes to watch the reaction on the soldiers face. "The Fall, why I jumped, why I stayed away for so long, it was to keep you safe. Moriarty was going to kill you if I didn't kill myself. John. It was all for you."  
The grip on his jacket had slackened slightly and John's facial expressions had turned from Determined Martyr to Lost Child in seconds. He blinked up at Sherlock, lips quivering as he we're trying to think of something to say.  
"I thought about you every day, but I needed to stay away, to keep you believing I was dead so that you wouldn't be put in harm's way again. John, if I lost you..."  
Sherlock raised his hand to rest on the naked shoulder, his fingers shaking slightly, his uncharacteristic nervousness causing him to stumble over his words. "I couldn't-I can't-If I-"  
His head dropped suddenly, dark curls falling over his face as he stared at the ground desperately thinking of how to phrase it. _Why wasn't his brain working properly? _John was still stood frozen to the spot, and Sherlock knew he was just as clueless on what to say as him. _Screw it.  
_Sherlock snapped his head up and grabbed Johns face, moving so that their noses were only inches apart.  
**_"I can't lose you again."_**

**_"I can't lose you again."  
_**John tried to prevent himself from gasping at the sudden proximity between them, and his inner soldier ordered him to not look away. But at the same time he was still wrestling with the sudden knowledge that Sherlock had put him, _both of them,_ through the worst three years of their lives to save him. He had sacrificed himself for John. He had sacrificed _everything _for John. And here he was, begging him not to make those three years of isolation a waste. He was hyperaware how desperately the long fingers were holding his face and of the slight edge of fear in the pale blue eyes which gleamed with sincerity. John watched as Sherlock's trembling lips began to form another sentence, the shape of their curves reminding him of something at the back of his mind.

Then his dream from last night hit him like a truck.

Sherlock's eyes widened as John gasped in his grip, snatching his hands away from the man's face in surprise.  
"John? What's wrong? I know this is probably a lot to deal with very suddenly and it'll take some time to-"  
"Shut up, Sherlock. Please, just for a second?" John pushed himself away from the wall that he had pinned the other man against, walking slowly across to the window whilst his thoughts raced at a panicked speed.  
_Why had he dreamt that? Did it mean anything? It couldn't-He wasn't into men. He wasn't gay, it was a platonic relationship, purely- _  
John turned and looked at the tall, slender man who was still leaning against the wall, how his breath was accelerated causing his chest to strain at the ridiculously tight buttons on his shirt. He considered the wreck he had been when this man had gone out of his life, and how deeply it had affected both of them. He observed how unusually nervous Sherlock appeared, and how his pale eyes followed Johns own movements across the room.  
No.  
It had never been purely platonic.  
Never.

John crossed the room in three short strides, reaching up to the detective, one hand twisting fingers into the dark messy hair and the other cupping the side of his face. He surrendered himself to instinct so to override the sense of terror that threatened to dominate his thoughts. He pulled the startled face down towards his own and crushed their mouths together in a tight kiss. Sherlock's lips were closed, but he wasn't pulling away and John's head swam with the sensation of how soft but firm they were under his. He barely registered how incredulous it was that he was kissing the man a few days ago he had detested the sight of.  
John broke away with a gasp, losing his nerve and stumbling backwards until he hit the kitchen table, shaking all over as adrenaline coursed through his veins. Sherlock too, was stood shaking and panting, his face a mask of shock and confusion. _Fuck. Fuck, shit, he had fucked up so badly. _John almost felt tears prickling at his eyes as he realised what a huge mistake he had made, hastily hiding his face in his hands, reality crashing down on him. _Of course it was a platonic relationship, how stupid could he be. It was fucking Sherlock Holmes for god's sake, what was he really-_

John's hands were suddenly wrenched from his face and he almost cried out in shock but his yell was cut off by the forceful press of warm lips against his own. Hands were feverishly running through his hair and there was the weight of a lean body against his own bare chest. John gripped the face pale face and pushed against it, staring into the familiar blue eyes which now smouldered darkly. Sherlock was panting heavily, his tongue almost lolling out of his mouth. There was no restraint, no composure; just pure, raw emotion from one of the most high-functioning minds in the world.  
"Sherlock..." John stuttered, his eyes lingering over the parted lips, words failing him once again.  
"Yes, this is what I want. Yes, I have thought of this before now. No, I am not doing this just to make you change your mind, though I do hope it may have some effect on your eventual decision."  
Sherlock said this all very fast in a deep breathy voice, leaning in so that he was centimetres from Johns ear, making shivers of desire run up his neck where the detective was gently tugging at his hair.  
"**_I want you safe, John." _** Sherlock's voice rumbled as he kissed hotly at his neck, causing a whimper of pleasure to escape from Johns parted lips. The taller man brought his mouth back up to that of the soldiers and tilted his head to one side as he trapped them both in another hot, demanding kiss. Johns heart was pounding almost painfully against his chest as he placed both hands on Sherlock's chest and pushed, making sure that their lips didn't break contact, but guiding the two of them through to the living room before tipping them both onto the sofa. John ran his tongue gently over the shape of Sherlock's chiselled lips, teasing the corners until they parted and the two tongues lashed together, small rumbling moans coming deep from within the Detective's chest. It was only when Sherlock began to undo his own shirt buttons that John pulled away.  
"I think-" He panted, "-I think maybe we should take it easy- no, don't give me that look, that's not what I mean. I just really, really don't want to fuck something up, okay?"  
Sherlock breathed deeply once then nodded reluctantly as John lifted himself from on top of him. They both sat there for a while, staring at each other, both seeming quite unable to believe what had just happened. Where did they go from here? How were they even going to interact? Everything had changed in a matter of minutes.

John moved first, rising from the sofa and grabbing his gun from the mantelpiece, took aim and fired, hitting the bullet hole that Sherlock had left in the wall this morning directly. He turned to his flatmate (Or partner? Could they be classed as lovers now? He tried not to think about that just yet.) and nodded firmly.  
"Moran wants me? Well, he's going to have to come and get me."  
He now had a bloody good reason to stay alive.


	9. Chapter 9

Sebastian Moran watched silently from where he was sprawled naked in the expensive leather armchair, his cigarette held between his lips and his face only illuminated by the flickering firelight, as the shaking girl pulled back on her clothing with trembling fingers. Yet another disappointment to add to the rest, she had broken so easily, so soon. The small, slim figure turned hesitantly after pulling on her ludicrously short dress and desperately tugging down the hem, trying to cover herself more, obviously realising that that was one of the factors that had led her to becoming his most recent victim. She cast a wary glance towards the man in the chair, looking as though she was about to say something from her bloodied lips as she twisted her fingers together.  
"Leave."  
She didn't need to be told twice. The girl, he hadn't even bothered to ask her name, practically ran from the room, slipping slightly on the marble floor. Once the heavy door had slid shut, Moran heard the sweet sound of a woman crying echo through the hall outside before it slowly faded away, leaving only the crackle of the fire and the clink of ice in his glass. Why were women always so weak? Why did they always scream? Why didn't they expect it?

After the successful hit of the Home Secretary, Moran had had another 48 hours before he had to work again and he had decided he wanted to celebrate in his usual style of drinking ridiculously expensive alcohol whilst planning how to neutralise all the people in the bar. Not that he carried out the second part.  
Often.

But he had to admit that recently, even by his standards, he had been acting a little volatile. He was usually calm, detached, a human weapon devoid of emotion, just another tool to be used to complete the job. And that was how he liked it. But since...since Jim's death...they had been different.

Him and Jim had been colleagues, partners and lovers. Moran always told himself that it was purely a physical thing, and brushed of Moriarty's pet names (_Sebby!)_ and the way he clambered into his lap as just the insane genius being, well, insane. It wasn't romance, they didn't love each other. No, he didn't like to think much about it at the time because emotions made him uncomfortable and there was no point in admitting it now. But Moran had always liked the way Jim got giggly about political assassinations, and Jim liked the way Moran held the knife during sex. Moriarty's insanity had balanced with Moran's serious attitude, their shared passion for the smell of spilled blood and stretching their abilities to the max had made them the perfect pair, like yin and yang.

But with a lot more screaming and death.

And now he was gone.

And Sherlock Holmes was alive.

The hit-man had been brooding over how he was going to hurt John Watson, how he would make the man scream, how he would make sure that Holmes would witness it all and drinking deeply from his glass. The fantasies were interrupted when the girl who was sat South West of him on table 32 who was accompanied by only another female approached him from behind, taking confident strides and wearing a glossy smile. His subconscious had been keeping an eye on every movement in the building and so he was expecting the sudden soft touch on his arm and didn't start, simply looked up coolly at the girl from above his glass. Moran guessed she was just past twenty two years of age. She had no wires on her from what he could tell with a glance, but a glance was usually all it took, and her accent suggested she was from the Czech Republic. So, not one of The Iceman's people, that fool was far too patriotic to employ anyone who didn't have the Union jack running through their veins. As she suggestively asked if she could get Moran anything, vaguely gesturing towards the bar, he glanced back at her friend who was watching with a sly grin plastered across her face, obviously waiting for the moment when he would rebuke her and she would trail miserably back to the table. He could reject her, but that would mean only one of the girls would be disappointed.

Why not break them both?

Moran gave a bitter smile from the armchair as he remembered the look of astonishment in the friends face as he had led the Czech girl out of the bar and into a taxi. The smile turned into a sneer as he remembered the look of panic in the girls eyes and the tears she had shed when he came to his climax.

So easily broken.

Always such a disappointment.

But John Watson would last him weeks, maybe even months. Moran lifted himself from the chair and wandered over to where his laptop hummed quietly, bringing it to life with a flick of his wrist and pulling up Doctor Watsons file to read through for the fifth time. It had been over a decade since he had last seen that face, and _oh how they had both changed. _Not that Watson would remember of course, he had been under a different name, little more than a boy. No, he wouldn't recognise him, but they would have plenty of time to catch up. It was funny how things worked out so neatly, in the end. Holmes had taken away his partner in crime, and now Moran would take away his partner in solving such.  
As Moran flicked through Watson's old medical details, he came upon the picture of the soldiers battle wound, the shot that had destroyed his left shoulder, missing his heart by fluke. Moran closed the laptop with a snap.

He wouldn't miss twice.

_The wind was whistling through his hair as Jim Moriarty lay dead on the ground, the crazed smile forever plastered on his face as blood ran in rivers from the back of his skull. Sherlock fell backwards in horror only to run into John, who caught him easily before embracing him, holding him tight, whispering it was all going to be okay. Sherlock nodded, not thinking of why he was up here on the roof, inhaling Johns scent, the smell of soap and some earthy fragrance comforting him and giving him hope. John held his face between his hands and kissed him sweetly, saying it was all over, Moriarty was dead, there was nothing left to fear. That he loved Sherlock, he had always loved him, he had always mattered. Sherlock smiled through tears and kissed John back, relief flooding through him. They were both safe. They both were going to be fine. Sherlock gripped Johns shoulders tightly, marching him backwards, ignoring the look of fear and panic in the smaller mans eyes.  
"We're safe, John. We're going to be okay." He said through sobbing breaths.  
And then Sherlock pushed John off St Bartholomew's Hospital._

"JOHN!" Sherlock knew he had been dreaming from the second the word left his lips but by then it was too late to take it back, the panic had overwhelmed him and in the rare hours of sleep he actually undertook he was hopeless to prevent the fears seeping back into his ordered and fantastic mind. But no, it was simply a dream. Useless. There was running in the hallway and the bedroom door flew open and John burst in, gun raised, his lips a hard line of deadly focus as he searched for the intruder who had woken Sherlock.  
"No, I'm fine, just a dream. Good to see you're keeping a guard though." The detective muttered, clambering out of bed and pulling on some clothes. John lowered the gun and raised an eyebrow questioningly, but Sherlock didn't want to talk about it, not now at least. When he didn't get a response he shrugged slightly and checked his watch, rolling his eyes and rubbing his forehead.  
"Sherlock, its 3 in the morning, get back into bed you need rest." John said, adopting a militaristic tone which made the base of Sherlock's spine tingle.  
"Is that an order?" He questioned emotionlessly whilst pulling on his favourite purple silk shirt, fiddling with the buttons, his eyes watching the doctor as he tucked the gun into the back of his jeans. Judging from the coffee stains on Johns fingers and the stifled yawn, Sherlock estimated John hadn't slept in the past 36 hours, instead he had been reading through Mycroft's file on Moran again as suggested by the small indentations the file had made on his fingertips. John needed sleep more than Sherlock did, but that didn't stop him from snatching the trousers away from his reach and pointing at the bed with a look of someone who didn't want to argue. Sherlock was tempted to push against the boundaries; he had had a thing for Army-John since he had ordered around that young officer in Baskerville. He didn't move, half clothed, watching coolly as Johns face switched from tired to authorative.  
"Sherlock. Bed. Now."  
"I don't need to sleep."  
John raised one eyebrow, unimpressed.  
"You're a man, Sherlock, not a bloody machine, now go back to bed."  
"Make me."  
"Don't act like a fucking child, I need you alert today so you can help me out smart this bloody Moran character before he gets to us. Now get some rest"  
Sherlock knew he was right, he had to focus. No matter how tempting it was to walk over an kiss John, feel the warm lips against his, the press of his muscle and his strong grip knotted in his hair and against the small of his back. He faltered for a second as he remembered the sensation of their tongues entwining, the sounds of Johns deep moans like music to his ears. _FOCUS. _  
Sherlock shook himself and pushed past John who was still stood in the doorway, snatching the trousers from his grip and pulling them off whilst striding down the hall.  
"Sherlock! For God's-"  
"I'm no use to you asleep, I might as well work, now shut up I'm going into my mind palace, I've heard the name Moran before I just need to remember where." As he settled himself on the sofa he began to shut down his external senses, blocking out all the stimuli that were providing him with data in the real world. Just as he began to open the doors of the mental world he caught the faint mutter of "_stupid prick" _from familiar lips and then he was gone, streaming through his own mental catalogue of information at lightfast speeds.

Greg Lestrade lay on top of the sheets of his bed, staring up at the ceiling. He had almost decided what he was going to do , and the fact that he had just got an explicit text message from his wife detailing all the dirty things she'd like to do to him had sealed the decision. As far as Greg was aware his name wasn't Peter, and he had been sent the message by mistake. Again.  
Moving out had been a step in the right direction. Yeah, admittedly, this flat wasn't the best of places, but it was away from her, and that was what mattered. Now he could think about what he wanted to do next. Sherlock had been right, of course he had been, and now with his own place he could experiment on his new desires finally. The guy he had brought home last night had left his belt, and Greg had kicked it under the bed, along with the forgotten shirt of the one before that. He couldn't say he wasn't enjoying this new lifestyle, it was exhilarating being single again, having careless sex with a different person each time. He was surprised he still had it in him to be able to pull so many, but then, he had seemed to of aged well, time only giving him the old silver-fox edge. What did he really want though? Greg ran his hands through his short hair and he thought about it. The warning look he had received off Sherlock wasn't just the sleepy gaze of a nicotine-junkie, no, Sherlock knew that what Greg really wanted, who he had grown to care for so much, was John.  
John had been there like no one ever had, and they had both patched each other's wounds up.  
But now the Great Detective was back, and he would be lucky to see John again once in the next month as they whirl away on their adventures.

_But Sherlock had hurt John. _He had torn him apart, completely broken him down. _And he might do it again. _Greg's chest tightened as he thought about what it would be like to see John as an empty shell again. No. He was his friend, and he had a duty to protect him, from whatever threatened his safety, even John himself. He remembered the call he had gotten from Mycroft Holmes, asking him to watch out for Dr Watson as he had just interrupted an attempted suicide. A chill ran up his arms and he rose up from where he was laying and crossed to the window, slamming it shut and cutting off the cold draught that had been blowing in. It was his **duty **to protect John.  
And so he would.


	10. Chapter 10

Mycroft Holmes finished a call with the leader of the fractured Syrian Government quickly as he noticed Anthea place a hand on her right leg, a signal he had come to recognise as a sign that she wanted his attention but knew not to disturb him. By the state of her index finger nail it was urgent. As Mycroft slipped the phone back into his pocket, he addressed the Chauffeur, "Markson, we need to get back to the office as soon as possible. Feel free to consider the rules of the road as merely guidelines until we get back."

Markson nodded his head in understanding before putting his professional skills work and handling the car like a part of his body as it weaved smoothly and terrifyingly fast through the lanes of traffic. Mycroft suppressed a smile, after all he only hired the best for a reason. He turned to his personal assistant who had been waiting patiently whilst typing out further text messages at inhuman speeds.  
"Who was his most recent victim, Anthea?"  
"The Countess of Wessex, Sir."

Mycroft couldn't prevent the clench in his jaw. Dear God, the Royal Family. It would take all his resources to cover this up and that could only be for a few days at the most. This was an act of war, and one he needed to win soon before panic erupted.  
"Anthea, contact the Minister of Defence, tell him to cancel his plans for 14:00. Markson, there's been a change of plan. Baker Street, immediately, if you please."

As Mycroft pulled out his phone and hit the speed dial for the Prime Minister he thought fractionally about what his brother was up to and hoped desperately that it would be of some use.

**[Lance Corporal Sebastian Moran]**

D.O.B. – 31.10.1974

Position- 16th Air Assault Brigade – Sniper Unit

Hair- Blonde

Eyes- Blue

Height- 6'2

Marital Status- Single

Dependants- None

Blood Type- B, RL positive

_[10.4.2001 - Dismissed from Armed Forces on Brutality charges amongst comrades]_

*LEVEL 5 THREAT*

*KNOWN ASSOCIATE TO JAMES MORIARTY, BLACK LOTUS, DIVINE EARTH ORGANISATION*

_*ORDER FOR NEUTRALISATION- 23.6.2004*_

_Yes, yes unimportant. We know this already, where do we find him?_

There was something, not a document, not an article, something HE had said.

"_Aren't ordinary people adorable? Well you know. You've got John. I should get myself a live-in one"._

_Got you. _

Sherlock snapped his hands together suddenly, opening his eyes with a gasp that startled John, dragging him out of his own half-sleep and causing a few seconds of confused pointing the gun around the room. Again. By the state of his eyes and stiff movements it seemed that he had only managed to snatch a few hours sleep uncomfortably in the arm chair, but better that than nothing, now they had a lead. From the cluttered coffee table, Sherlock's phone buzzed.

**Countess o W. Don't make me order you. –M**

Sherlock threw the phone to John so he could read the message instead of just giving him quizzical looks.  
"Countess oh-double-you? What does that mean? Is it some-"  
"It means the Countess of Wessex."  
"What about her, wha-_oh no."  
_"Moran's second victim." Sherlock began pulling off his sloppy clothes, knowing Mycroft would only be two minutes away at the most. Snatching up a shirt from the back of a chair he shrugged it on and fiddled with the buttons as John stared gob smacked.  
"_Royalty?!"  
_Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Yes. Royalty. They aren't untouchable, and this one can't be covered up, at least not for long. We have 72 hours at the most before panic erupts."  
John's face set in a grim determined expression. His grasp around the gun which had been clasped in his right hand for the past day tightened and he swallowed thickly.  
"Sherlock, we need to get to him tonight. You need to hand me over, you have a plan I know it. You know where he is, I can see it in your eyes. "  
He stood from the chair and stepped toward Sherlock, his posture stiff and upright, his mouth a hard straight line. The soldier had emerged again and Sherlock knew he was right.  
"Sherlock, we can to stop this. But only if we work together."  
_You can't go jumping off any fucking buildings without me._

Sherlock nodded again, not meeting John's insistent stare. John was right, for once, it had to be tonight. That didn't mean he had to like it though. The thought of losing John again clawed at his innards and a muscle in his jaw twitched involuntarily as he finished with his buttons and checked his refection once in the mirror. The mirror showed a man that was more ghost than human with gaunt shadows across his pale face. Then again, being referred to as either Vulcan or a machine was common, undead was bound to come soon. John was unaware he was being watched by the detective who followed his movements in the glass, oblivious that his silent sigh and crease of eyebrows was observed along with the subconscious touch to the back of his neck as he stretched, his fingers running exactly over where the rope burn scarred his flesh. The scar that would never have been there if Sherlock had been here to look after him. The scar that could have been fatal. Sherlock turned his attention back to his own reflection sharply and it seemed he had aged ten years in five seconds. His lower lip snagged between his teeth as he bit back the choking feeling in his throat. No. This was just one tiny, over excited assassin. John would be fine. They would both be fine. As long as everything went to plan, it would be over in a matter of days. They'd be national heroes even, suppressing an internal terrorist threat. Sherlock tutted at the idea. _Don't make people into heroes. _

John looked up when he heard the small noise of disapproval from the taller man, lips parted about to ask what it was for when there was the sounds of smart footsteps on the wooden stairs followed by the click-clack of heels closely behind. The eldest Holmes brother, pushed the door open with his umbrella, his aura of power dominating the living space and immediately the room felt darker. Anthea closed the door without looking up from her phone and walked over to the desk, picking up Sherlock's laptop without permission and began working from it instantly as Mycroft sat down and indicated that the other two men should follow his lead with the smallest twitch of his eyebrows. They both complied without question and watched expectantly as Mycroft placed a briefcase on the table, flicked it open and sat back in the armchair, finally breaking the silence with his cold, clipped tones.

"You know what is at stake. I will provide you with everything you need. The only question that remains is whether you'll do what needs to be done, Sherlock?"

Sherlock ran his eyes over the contents of the briefcase, a small smirk flickered at the edges of his chiselled lips briefly, before he returned the cool, unwavering gaze of The British Government.

"For Queen and Country? 221b, Reporting for duty, Brother Dear."

John snorted from the sofa.


End file.
